


Revelation

by by_no_one_more_than_me (Lady_Cleo)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angry Greg Lestrade, Don't Examine This Too Closely, First Time, Happy Sex, Happy Sexy Fun Times, I Was Drunk When I Wrote This, It Turns Out FINE, Kissing, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, Mycroft's Weird Flirting, Mystrade is our division, Oral Sex, Secrets, Wait... What?, at least a bit, mystrade, probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-10-07 05:45:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17360153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Cleo/pseuds/by_no_one_more_than_me
Summary: In which a certain minor government official summons a certain DI to his home, and makes a request, and things are revealed.





	1. Revelation

**Author's Note:**

> I was out, reading fic between karaoke rotations, and this just sort of happened.
> 
> Also, I'm rating for language (Greg drops a lot of F-bombs) and some other stuff. Erring on the side of caution.

His mind must be playing tricks. His hearing's going funny now he's within spitting distance of 5 decades on the planet. Or it's just a dream. Nothing makes sense because he's standing in Mycroft's townhouse, having been collected after his shift at the Yard and deposited in - of all places - the man's bedroom.

Or rather, the ridiculously posh 'sitting area' that attaches somehow to the man's bedroom. He's never been before, and these are not the circumstances he'd have preferred experiencing it for the first time.

They are now alone, Mycroft watching him from a wingback by the fireplace, still in one of his posh intimidating suits, unfairly long legs crossed elegantly at the knee, two glasses of amber liquid on the small table beside him, Greg stood just inside the door in rumpled off-the-peg synthetics.

And now apparently he's hearing things.

"You think I'm spying? On  _Sherlock_? If I wouldn't do it for  **you** , who the hell you think would tempt me to?!"

"It's... there have been rumours circulating in re your recent absences from the office. Not every one corresponds with times  _ **I**_  have summoned you, and those that do not seem to line up with some of my dear brother's more... auspicious disappearances." He sighs, closes his eyes around a sip. He doesn't meet Lestrade's eye, instead searching for answers in the swirling liquor in his glass. "It's my b-brother, you understand. I have to be certain. He is always my priority."

"So I'm what? S'posed to be wearin' a wire? A tracker? Maybe GPS in my shorts?"

"I do not give credence to speculation which flies in the face of everything I know about you. I pride myself on being a good judge of character!"

"That make two of us! You've still had me fetched and brought to your home - and hang on. Why  _am_ I in your home? Why aren't we doin' this at your office, or your club? Security's gotta be better there."

"It is... an additional measure. I can control things quite well from here."

_I'll just bet you can, gorgeous,_ Greg's mind supplies unhelpfully. The lie should be his focus.

"And I would never make such a request as I am about to anywhere but the safety of my home."

This man will be the death of him. Funny, really. He'd always figured if a Holmes was gonna kill him it'd be Sherlock. "Request? For what?"  _Fuck a duck._  "Speak English, Myc!" Greg's fingers instantly ache to clench in his own hair and yank til things make sense again. 

"I need you to take your clothes off." There's no air in the room. "Please." 

It's the courteous afterthought he almost finds more shocking than the...  _request_  it was meant to emphasize. He feels the strangest urge to laugh. It has to be a joke.

"You are taking the piss?"

Mycroft deploys an eyebrow. "Enough time has passed between us for you to be well aware I am not known for my mirthful nature, Mr. Lestrade."

After 7 years, the correction is automatic. "Greg, and you can't be serious."

"I am, therefore I can."

"Mycroft-"

" _Strip_ , Detective Inspector." The command and the low voice in which it's issued have an instant tightening effect on Greg's trousers, and then everything goes quiet in his head.

_What? The fuck is really going on here?_

He could explain the 'recent absences.' It'd be mortifying and he might melt through the carpet in shame, but he could do it. But something's flaring in his gut, shadow boxing with the long-banked flames of his desire for this hopelessly out of his league man, and he suddenly doesn't give a tinker's damn that he could explain. He doesn't think he should, and fuck it - he's not going to now. He wouldn't give Mycroft bloody Holmes the satisfaction if his life depended on it.

A sinfully long digit indicates a chair to Greg's left. "Clothes there as they come off, if you please."

Greg doesn't please. Greg is bloody well  _furious_ , the heightened emotion translating into jerky tight motions. He skins out of his blazer, slapping the fabric into a rough approximation of a ball and punting it at the chair. 

Shirt next. He nearly snaps a button in half. If he didn't know it was only a trick in the movies, he'd rip the damn thing apart in one hard go.

"Slower, please, Detective Inspector."

_Oh, fuck off, posh boy,_ he thinks viciously. _I'll go my own pace_. The movements don't slow at all. The shirt peels off him like a hunter field dressing a catch- methodical application of a swift economy of motion. It receives the same treatment, huffed into a wad and pitched at the chair.

He toes off his shoes one at a time, nudged together with his sock-clad feet as his eyes pin Mycroft's like sniper fire.

This is the last scenario he'd ever have considered for how he'd end up naked in front of Mycroft Holmes.

His fingers fly to his belt and the metal of the buckle barely has time to ring or click before the leather is whipping through his belt loops at speed.

"Inspector..." There's a warning in the quiet clipped tone, the shortened title. It will be summarily and blatantly disregarded.

Greg's fingers tighten on the width of material in a valiant attempt to keep from shying it at the man's head like Eliza Doolittle armed with a pair of slippers. And oh, he does  **not**  need another reminder right now of all the differences between them. 

The leather is still warm from his body as he imagines strangling Mycroft with it. Nah. He'd just use the man's own tie, some stupidly expensive scrap of silk twisting tight around the marble column of his throat. Better yet, his bare hands. Mess up at least one bloody Holmes, get a hand on skin just to prove once and for all they're something approximating human. Flesh and bone instead of steel and silicon.

He tosses the belt, flung like a far-reaching hope, and reaches for his fly.

" _Please_ , Lestrade." The voice is almost a growl now.  _And we're getting warmer,_ Greg thinks.  _Still not there yet, though._

He tips his head defiantly, screaming what? without a sound. The zip goes down, the harsh uncoupling of the metal teeth loud in the quiet. The only counterpoint is the sound of their breathing, and all the things going unsaid.

His hands jam into the gap between polyester and pants, and he is about to shove them -

The elder Holmes is on his feet in a flash. "Damn it, Gregory! Slow down!" It's imperious but impassioned and Greg is officially at the end of his tether.

"Mycroft?" Greg growls through gritted teeth, fully aware he sounds every bit the mongrel the elder Holmes thinks him to be. The faithful hound, the watchdog, the police mutt. "Fuck. You." 

There's a moment, stretched fine and shimmering as a line of spidersilk, broken only by a few fluttering blinks that shutter those mercurial grey eyes.

"That... is... precisely what I'd like you to do."

_Wait... what?_

"However you'd prefer. As fast or slow, hard or calm as you like. If you like."

_Wait a bleeding mo'._ ** WHAT?! **

Mycroft clears his throat before pressing on again. "I'd be content merely to look at you unclothed and compare it to my numerous mental approximations. However... in the event of anything further, I require... a few moments to... come to grips with the... burgeoning reality of this moment." He's blushing. Mycroft "minor position, my Aunt Petunia" Holmes is turning shell pink. Heaven help him, the man is blushing! And still talking like that. "I'm sorry for... but I've... wanted it rather a long time, you see and... I, in truth, had not ever really expected... Perhaps in my wildest of-"

Warm lips pressed to his own cut off what could've (and likely would have) devolved into self-recrimination and flagellating doubt, rapidly mutating into a rush of apology and a call for a car to take him far away while the man collects himself and leaves his life for good. He cannot make his brain process the speed with which Lestrade crossed the gap between them, insurmountable as it had seemed just a moment ago. He simply does not know how Gregory got to him so fast... in every way. It's the first time tonight he hasn't minded the Det. Inspector's speed.

All he can focus on is sensation. Warm steady pressure. Delicate skin. A faint trace of hours-old cologne and a hit of masculine pheromone. The bump of a nose against his own as the kiss realigns without breaking. A moan he can't imagine came from him, though he is in no shape to analyse determinative data. A soft slick shape - merciful heavens is that a  _tongue?!_ \- tracing the seam of his lips, startling him to a gasp that allows it entry. The muted explosion of the flavour of Gregory hits his mouth like a bomb detonated underwater and his hands alight on Greg's arms, thumbs settling like fallen snow into the crease of his elbows. Large warm hands with lightly callused fingers are cupping his face, holding it like it's something delicate. Like he's something to be treasured and handled with care. Mycroft would swear he can feel every whorl and ridge of those prints imprinting on his skin.

Then it all ceases. His face is still held, gentle and light, but the kiss is gone. Their noses slide along one another and there's a tickling brush of hair before their foreheads press together. They're sharing breath, he's still holding onto Gregory's arms. If their relative position were rotated on axis 90 or so degrees, it'd be extremely intimate.

"You... brilliant idiot." The statement is a puff of perfumed air, a zephyr breathing into his soul. He can't bring himself to open his eyes. "I've wanted you for ages."

_Wait. What?_

"Absolute ages. I mean it. There was Sherlock, and makin' sure he was alright. But then you kidnapped me and... fuck me up. That was the start of it. Right down the rabbit hole. You even had a pocketwatch. Always figured you were outta my league."

"I am." Mycroft's lips move restlessly over Gregory's skin, dotting here and there with soft kisses, opening wide to taste and breathe him in. He pauses with the tip of his hawk nose at the juncture of Lestrade's jaw then closes his teeth around the sensitive lobe of his ear, worrying it a second before whispering like a secret into the delicate shell. "You are, put quite simply, magnificent. Far too beautiful ever to have noticed someone like me."

He can feel as much as hear the answering smile.

"Nice try, gorgeous. You're the hot one. I'm..." His lips carefully map the tender topography of the underside of Mycroft's jaw, like some wonderfully erotic cartographer. When he speaks again, Mycroft feels the vibrations to the tips of his curling toes. "I'm the scruffy Essex boy, divorced, cop on the job, all this grey-"

"Silver," the elder Holmes pants at the ceiling, his arms threading under the inspector's to clutch him close, buffed nails digging deliciously into the man's broad rock hard shoulders. "Not grey. It's silver, a precious metal. A standard."

"Mmmm..." Greg chuckles, the noise eventually rumbling into a drawn out moan when Mycroft rakes one set of nails down to the base of his spine, slips between the fabrics and tentatively cups his buttock. "Whatever you say, sunshine." His own hands are working methodically at the myriad buttons and fasteners on the too many sodding layers keeping him from Mycroft's skin. "Though... if I'm the silver standard..." He pauses to part the layers and slide his hands inside, marveling at the smooth expanse of pale skin he suddenly has access to. "S'at make you the copper?"

It's a terrible joke. Regardless, Mycroft's surprised burble of laughter is smothered up when Greg claims his mouth again in a crushing kiss.

Those tenderly capable hands are still roving over his flesh, flattening over his back and urging him forward until he's pressed intimately against Lestrade's own bared torso. His brain blinks, the sparest of seconds lost in feeling. The hot slide of tongues learning each other. The firm globe of muscle he's kneading in one hand, warmth radiating through the thin material still covering it. The tattoo of Gregory's heartbeat he can feel echoing in his own chest. The rather interested parties below currently introducing themselves through trousers and cleanly expressing their desire to better know one another... intimately. And immediately.

"What's your schedule like tomorrow, darlin'?" The question vibrates against his lips and oh good Lord that  _voice._  Better than a drug, he'd wager - it's the first time he's ever been able to sympathise with Sherlock's former chemical dependencies if they were half so affecting as that sound.

"Mmmm," he shivers as Greg dots up his hawkish nose with little pecks, leaves Morse Code trails over the ridge of his cheekbone. "I believe... a light day. Relatively. A status meeting at 9, the Home Secretary at half 11, then meetings all afternoon. Why do you ask?"

"Because," comes the harshly sweet growl in his ear. "You might wanna clear your morning."

Gregory's hands have slid down to cup Mycroft's arse, and with a stunningly smooth surge, he lifts him clean off the ground. So startled is the minor official that his legs instantly thread themselves about the man's waist, holding on for dear life despite the trust he has that Gregory won't let him fall, won't let him down. It's a strange feeling, faith in another person, but when considered of the man he's wrapped around, a decidedly unshakable one, pleasant in its stability. 

His fingers stretch up and tighten in Greg's gorgeously lustrous locks, and he wants almost nothing more than to snog the man breathless. Almost.

"The bedroom. Just there." He indicates the half-open door a few yards behind, and Greg is on the prowl before the last syllable has fallen from his lips. They stop in the doorway, Greg taking in the sizable sleigh bed decked in blue and grey linens, the reading glasses atop the bookmarked novel on the far bedside table, the cold fireplace.

For all that he's not a Holmes, he still sees a distant shimmer- six months, not more than a year or so on. There's an Arsenal mug on the near table, a bigger armoire so he can stash all his jeans and sweaters, a pair of toothbrushes keeping each other company in the en suite. Two halves, fit together like puzzle pieces, snuggling to create a perfect whole in the center of the bed.

It's nice.

"And next time you want me, naked or otherwise, just tell me. No need for games, alright? I do better when I know what I'm meant to be doing." A blush paints itself over Mycroft's cheeks as he worries at his lower lip, a frisson of shame over his false pretense threading through the haze of desire. It's jolted right back out when Greg bounces him sharply in his arms, shooting him a decidedly cheeky grin. "Your voice already turns me on. Don't be afraid to speak up with me, deal?"

There's a brief consideration, cost/benefit analysis, a future to be glimpsed in the cocoa depths of the man's eyes. Then he pulls out his Very Serious 'I absolutely mean business' tone.

"Gregory. Shut up and take me to bed."

"Yes, sir."


	2. Release

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are happy sexy fun times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... you asked for it. So it continues.
> 
> Also, this is like my third time *ever* writing M/M smutty fun and first time with ANY degree of detail, and I do not claim the level of Mottlemoth or HastaLux - who kindly shared some words of wisdom. (Thanks again, H.) Be gentle. I tried.

He pauses to tap the door shut with his heel, plunging the room into a cool blue darkness. The bed is his next port of call, tipping Mycroft onto his back across the fluffy expanse. He covers him quickly, capturing his mouth again and rolling them until he can reach the bedside lamp. Mycroft's blown pupils don't decrease at all in the soft glow, and Greg can't help but marvel at the blessing bestowed on him by the universe that this beautiful man - literally the man of his dreams - is about to share his body and his bed with a silver-topped copper.

He makes short work of their remaining clothes, taking a thoughtful second to drape them over a chair by the closet instead of creating a crumpled heap on the carpet. Another moment before he rejoins him on the bed, just taking in the sight of his stunning soon-to-be lover laid out like a jewel in a box, all shadowed hollows and long limbs and glowing skin. And if the small swipe of pink between Mycroft's lips is any indicator, he approves of  _his_  new view as well.

Greg clambers back on the bed and steals another kiss, because he can't not do that right now. Applying lips and fingers once again to the task of learning every sensitive inch of Mycroft's body, he's paid homage to the cinnamon sprinkling of freckles atop each shoulder and is halfway down his sternum when he murmurs against the delectable flesh laid out beneath him. 

"Just... out of curiosity. Is it okay if we get a bit loud? I mean, your team's not gonna come bust the door down if I wring a bit a noise outta ya, are they?"

Gregory flashes him a pure roguish look before returning attentions to his skin, and Mycroft's blush intensifies. "Oh. No. I mean, I had given orders for tonight, even if you'd left immediately. But since you're staying... unless I trip the panic alarm, they will not disturb us."

"Good to know, gorgeous." Greg's mouth closes over one nipple, teasing it with tongue and light grazes of teeth until Mycroft is vibrating like a cello string. He strokes at the peak with the pad of his thumb as he moves to the other to pay it similar due, only pausing when he feels fingers tightening in his hair. He chances a look up and yup, that is one blissed-out Holmes. The man is responsive like none he's known before and they've barely even started.

_S'alright, darlin'. I'll give you something to hold onto, and good reason to do it._

He kisses down over the soft expanse of Mycroft's stomach - not even a tummy, and he'll deck baby brother should he ever again imply otherwise in Greg's hearing - fingers trailing over the sides of his ribs and feeling the tremulous shiver sparked by the brushing touches. He ghosts his tongue over the jut of Mycroft's hipbone and almost gets a dented nose when it jolts off the bed. Pinning him gently with the weight of a forearm over his pelvis, Greg nuzzles his way between milk-soft thighs and finds a tiny mole halfway down the inner diameter slope of the right to taste and tease. A graze of stubble and countless whispered kisses before he's using his shoulders to part Myc's legs wider. Mycroft's long slender fingers are gripping the sheets and his long slender cock is arching towards his abdomen, rigid in a thatch of ginger curls. Greg feels a lick of pride and pleasure that  _he's_  the one to do this, to see this, to get to tuck it in the recesses of his mind for when his body is as grey as his hair.

He licks a long stripe over Mycroft, root to tip, taking him in hand and teasing the head with little flicks of his tongue like a lolly. The man lets out a whine, hips trying to twist. Greg mouths over the head, letting it rest just past his lips, hollowing his cheeks and applying a hint of suction. A sharp inhalation draws his eyes. A sheen of perspiration is coating Mycroft's chest like a sugar glaze, and Greg's mouth is watering at the sight.

Bobbing in earnest rhythm now, Greg takes him deeper and deeper, relaxing his jaw by rote and sucking on the upstroke as he applies soft pets and light grounding scratches to whatever part of Mycroft's body he can reach with his free hand. A trace of salt lines his tongue and the taste is clean, like an ocean breeze. Should he edge him for a while? Bring him off with mouth and hand alone to start? Or simply play for a bit, get one orgasm out of the way, working them both up to the point of mindless need and feeling them spill together, over hands and skin?

He's still blowing Mycroft, more grateful than ever in his life for a practically non-existent gag reflex as he draws him in deep and swallows once, twice, the contraction of his throat around Mycroft's head and the tightening of his hand at the base making his thighs tense and pull up near Greg's ears. He manages a humming chuckle (more sensation than sound) as he pulls off a bit and pins Mycroft's knees wide again. But there's a hand in his hair, so he draws off completely with a hushed pop and a little peck to the still leaking head before looking up Mycroft's body to his wrecked expression.

"Gregory?" The hint of devastation already evident in his tone sends a ripple down Greg's vertebrae. His answering smile is the comfort of a country hearth in January.

"Yes, love?"

"W...would you...  _please_... get me ready for you?"

Something's just unobtrusively exploded in his brain.  _Oh, God, yes._

And how a bottle of high-end lube has appeared in the man's hand when Greg would swear in court he hadn't heard the slide of a drawer... but they can discuss sexual sleight of hand later.  _Much_ later. For now there are more pressing matters to attend to, like preparing the rigid body beneath his.  _Settle, darlin'. Not to worry. I'll take care of you, take care of everything._

He pops the cap and slicks a finger, rubbing slow careful circles until some of the cabling tension in Myc's body has started to bleed off. Then he eases a fingertip, slowly and carefully, just to the first knuckle and back out, over and over til there's just a little more give. Then the same with the second knuckle until Mycroft is wriggling his hips a little, then finally the whole finger. He works him open with infinite patience, his free hand going to the back of Mycroft's knee and carefully moving it outward and up, opening him more and changing the feel of Greg's finger inside him. By the time they're at two fingers, twisting and scissoring in little flexes, the wriggles have turned into a sinuous writhing like Medusa's snakes, except the only part of Greg turning to stone is his still untouched cock.  _Fuck me._ Forget a PC walking the beat with a truncheon; he could take down a Peckham gang with this thing.

Moving to three fingers is a necessary torment. He's thick for his size, and wouldn't hurt Mycroft for worlds, even if it's killing him by inches to move without haste. There's a faint metallic taste in Greg's mouth from biting his lip so hard but finally,  _finally,_ Mycroft feels ready for him.

" _Ahhh..._  Myc, it's almost... I'm gonna need some protection, sweetheart." He's not sure how much of the gasped statement is penetrating the cotton wool blanket he seems to have wrapped Mycroft's head in but he's got no fucking idea where condoms might be in this place and he'd rather not leave the bed if he can help it. For a start, walking with any degree of normalcy or speed would be damn near impossible. 

Mycroft is still thrashing gracefully across the coverlet, head tossing from side to side and for a moment Greg is terrified he's none on hand. He's a red-blooded male of the modern age but he might actually cry if-

"Nnngh... clean. Please? Only if you..."

 _Oh, God._ The idea of coming together without a barrier is nearly enough to tip him then and there. There's been no one since Karen, who'd been clever enough to manage condoms with her husband while having enough sex for a rugby team, and his last 2 health panels have been clean as whistle. Even when he was a cocky kid in the punk scene condoms had been the norm, somehow never one to play fast and loose with potentially loaded guns. The thought that his first time bareback  _and_  his first time with Mycroft can be one and the same is... a little breathtaking. 

"M'clean too, darlin'. I'd... love our first time to be... together like that. If you're sure?"

"Ungh. Yes.  _Please._  Gregory, yes."

Applying generous lubrication to his cock and a bit extra to Mycroft's pliant entrance, Greg snaps the bottle closed and sets it within reach. He arranges Mycroft's thighs over the tops of his own and sets a hand by the other man's head for balance as he lines them up and breaches him with just the tip. There's a quiet gasp and he freezes, ready to pull out and start prepping all over - but Mycroft's heels are settling against his arse and his hands are skating up Greg's arms and holding his face to pull him down for a kiss. When he releases his dishy DI some breathless moments later, his eyes are pleading.

So Greg slides out and cautiously pops back in, and Mycroft's fighting a fascinating battle between his eyes sliding closed and trying to force them to stay open, torn between losing himself in the wash of pleasure and not missing a microsecond of the experience. Greg continues drawing back a little then pushing in just a fraction of an inch deeper on the return, until he's finally fully sheathed inside the Holmes who's nearly insensible beneath him.  _Fuck. Me. Up._  The man is so tight and hot and gloriously fluid it's like fucking into a velvet glove. He grits his teeth and waits, sweat beads popping along his brow from holding back as Mycroft adjusts to the feel of being so thickly filled. Eventually the slight burn fades and he's pulling at Greg's shoulders with feverish impatience, then gripping tight enough to score them with half-moon indents as his lover shifts out in a torturous slow slide and then calmly reclaims his position.

In and out, slowly, almost languid and they're both managing only harsh snatches of oxygen through flaring nostrils and clenched teeth.

Greg changes angles - just a few degrees of difference - but suddenly Mycroft is seeing small solar flares with every thrust and tasting ozone and dark chocolate and his spine is sticky toffee pudding and his brain is a coil of electrified wire. Thoughts are non-entities, scattered like dandelion seeds on a breeze. The speed increases, a smooth transition of gears like a fine automobile and Mycroft is borne along, drifting weightless in a swirling vortex of silken rapture. All there is is  _here_ ,  **now** , Gregory, slide, friction, tension, the soft rasp of their tangling chest hair. One leg hitches higher til his ankle is almost resting on Gregory's shoulder, the other sliding til his knee and ankle are hooked over opposite hips. It causes a slight angling of his pelvis and suddenly the solar flares are starbursts licking over his fraying nerves.

Time spools out into a meaningless void. Every clock in the universe has ceased marking something which no longer exists, cannot until the lovers reach their completion and breathe each other in and imprint in one another's DNA, fundamentally altering everything until the temporal stall they've willed is kick-started once again into being.

"Oh! Oh GOD. G-g-Gregory... Gregory!  **YES!** "

Mycroft comes so hard his toes curl, and the muscles in his arms and calves and up the back of his thighs lock they're so tense. Gregory is well trapped but content to stay and somehow still moving, sliding through the slippery sheen of sweat and spend that reaches almost to his lover's chin. The unseen soul of British government might be impressed later with the distance; at the moment he's not even in the same solar system let alone his own head.

Greg's own orgasm hits then, balls drawing tight and a railroad spike punch to the spine flooding his system with endorphins and all sorts of tingly chemicals that feel like he's plunging into an aerated sea of moonlight and comets. He lets himself fall into Mycroft's inescapable embrace, careful not to crush the man beneath him, content to catch his breath and slow his racing heart and collect all the pieces of himself that went whizzing off into the stars so he can gift them to the man holding him.

He feels a bone-deep sense of contentment, of little filaments lighting up between them, linking them inextricably in some indescribable fashion as though the universe is determined they never part again. The universe is Greg's new best friend. 

It is, beyond question, one of the most complete and connecting releases he's ever had in his life. 

But the night's not over yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos eternally appreciated. After all, you guys got me into this.
> 
> And then there was a part three, wherein it is revealed what dear Gregory's been up to... and how Mycroft reacts to the news. Coming soon. Hold onto your knickers, kids.


	3. Remarque

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it is revealed what Gregory's been up to...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You asked for it, you got it. The explanation for Greg's 'absences' and Mycroft's reaction.

By the time Mycroft's returned from orbit, Greg's managed to slip free, clean them both up with a warm wet flannel, and tuck them in again under the covers. He's cradled against Gregory's chest, head turned so his ear is over the man's heartbeat, snug and secure in his boneless state. But Greg's arms are not around him, or rather they are but otherwise occupied. Over the steadying thump-thump in one ear, he detects a faint  _skritch-scratch_  behind him and there are muscles bunching and flexing with minute movements. He stays still, too many years of training demanding he gather and assess data undetected and discover the truth of what's going on.

But either because Gregory is a cop or he spent the better part of a decade sleeping next to someone or just because he somehow understands the minor government official in a way no one ever has, he's instantly aware he's no longer off-world. The noise ceases, a few swift shifts and he's slid something beneath the pillow behind him, no doubt to be collected later.

"Hey." His arms envelope Mycroft with fondness and he presses a kiss to his hair as he snuggles in a little closer. "Welcome back, sunshine. Have a nice mini-break out by Saturn? Or was it Jupiter?"

"It was merely stratospheric, Gregory." He traces a fingertip over Greg's pectoral, sketching little nonsensical designs and writing their initials, crossing his nail in a soft graze over the flat pad of Gregory's nipple. It elicits a sharp drawn-in hiss, and he instantly files the knowledge away for next time.

_There might be a next time. No. There_ will _be a next time. Another time after, and many times beyond that. I cannot ever let him go._

Still, his curiosity is nagging at him, the never-satiated beast of his analytical mind craving sustenance in the form of data, knowledge, answers. One cannot form bricks without clay, and his lover is withholding.

His hand follows the line of ribcage and softly grips at the lean muscle of back, recalling each name - in the proper Latin - as he touches, learns.

Greg's relaxing into the touch when it stops and he hears as much as feels the hand slip behind him and snake under his pillow.  _Shit._  "Wait!" But Mycroft is already dragging the leatherbound journal across the sheets. "Myc, please... Don't-" But he's turning away, rolling out of Greg's hold with a look of startled confoundment.

_Please, don't. Don't open that. I shouldn't've brought it. Shouldn't have snuck it while you were off floatin' in the ether._

He's instantly praying to every deity that might consider listening.  _I bloody knew better. Please. I'll never do it again. Just don't let him open it. It's Pandora's bloody book._

He makes a desperate grab, panic and years of training kicking in, fingers catching in a flesh manacle around the delicate bones of Mycroft's wrist. But he's against Mycroft Holmes, who's clearly had some training of his own. How he's contorting himself like that, using his few extra inches to hold the book just out of Greg's reach, and almost pinning Greg down singlehandedly... it really just fits the bill for a man he already knows shrouds himself in mystery like a bespoke suit.

"Mycroft please. M'begging you. Just let me have it back."

"For all I know,  _Gregory_ ," and the icy tone douses him like a bucket of melted snow. He hates that sound coming out of the mouth that less than 30 minutes prior had been panting and moaning and shouting his name in tortured delight. "This could be some issue of national security. Some scrap of intelligence of vital import to a foreign power. Those disappearing acts of yours were just my pretext to get you here, but there's actually something on, isn't there?" His thumb is edging over the pages like a divining rod, searching for the best opening.

"Can I... at least get dressed first?"  _Wait. What?_ "I mean, you're prob'ly gonna want me outta here once I explain, and I don't fancy getting carted out by your security team in nothin' but my pants and a smile."

'Very well' is on the tip of his tongue, ready to come tumbling out when a "No" rushes the queue and breaks instead. They both blink a minute, and he pushes lightly at Greg's distractingly bare chest to give himself some much-required breathing space. "Ahem. No. I think you shall explain first. There is always time to collect your things afterward."

Greg lets out a small huff of relief and reaches for the book, which is promptly held out of reach once more. His eyes close and he draws in a deep breath, willing it to smother his nerves like a fire extinguisher.

"Alright. About... a year ago, after the divorce was finalized... I, well, hell, I was a wreck. A relieved wreck, mind - I mean, I understood _practically_ that I was better off, but... still hurt. So my nieces dragged me to a drawing class. They're really into graphic novels and the like, wanted to start learning how to sketch superheroes and all on paper, 'stead of just doin' it on the computer. 'Makes the art more real' they said. Plus that way they can doodle all over their notebooks-" 

Mycroft deploys his 'the point, please?' eyebrow and Greg swallows, steeling himself to get to the point despite the blush he can feel working up his skin. 

"Anyway, aside from logos for the band when I was younger, maybe a few cartoons in school, I never really went for the art thing. Didn't think I were any good at it. But this teacher starts looking over my sketches after class and says they're good. Like  _really_  good. And she starts having me in to her other classes, life drawing and form, movement work. And I'm... I mean, like my specialty seems to be..." One hand is roughing the back of his neck, self-soothing and allowing him a break from the piercing eye contact. "Erm... erotic art. Like nudes and sexy stuff. All classical looking, like 2D sculpture or some'ing, but she joked about needing ice water to look my stuff over, and I stopped going when she asked me out. There were a couple pieces where I did a woman, but mostly it was - and I never filled your face in back then, but it was clearly..." 

His throat's gone dry, not just from talking but what he's saying, all this... _revelation_. Clearing his throat sounds like a machine gun burst, and Lord but he'd kill for a glass of water right then. 

"But I kept sketchin' and sometimes... when I'm thinking 'bout you or we've met up... I get the urge to draw. My office is nothin' but glass walls and pryin' eyes, and the DI can't be caught spendin' ages in the toilets. So between Sherlock and waiting by Anthea's desk when we met at yours, I found a few spots I can slip off the grid for a bit, away from those all-seeing eyes you've got 'round the city. Just to get the rough idea down, then I go back and finesse it later when I'm home in the bathroom or that blind spot on my couch."

His eyes slant to Mycroft's slightly startled ones, as if telegraphing  _'Ahh. Didn't think I knew about that one, didja, sunshine? The little cam above the restaurant across the way from my flat. But why'd'ya think I wank so much on the sofa, half covered up, when the bed'd be more comfortable? Had to rile you up any way I could.'_

"So... yeah. That's where I've been going. S'why I popped off the grid from time to time, and... it's what's on those pages. M'not spying, on either of you. I wouldn't do that. Never even filled in your face back then. Couldn't quite admit it to myself, and wouldn't have let anyone else see. But that's all it is. Most incriminating bits are some absolutely crap poetry in the margins and a few lines on some of the sketches made me think of you. Opera, mostly. Foreign languages seem to get how I feel more'n this one sometimes."

Oh.

For a long while, there's quiet. Nothing but the soft ticking of the mantelclock and the mismatched rhythm of their breathing and the roaring thud of Greg's pulse in his ears. Then Mycroft skates a glance at him, unnaturally shy.

"May I look? Please?"

Greg almost doesn't want to let him. It's something Mycroft didn't know about him, maybe one of the  **only**  things he didn't. More than that, it's the dark chocolate layer of his sexual psyche. It's... bits of his soul set down on paper, the wild fever-dreams and 'never gonna happen in a million, mate' imaginings of how he's dreamt about this man. Longed for him. Ached for him some nights, when the images creep back into his brain and play for hours, pornographic and champagne sweet, leaving him hard and lonely when he wakes with empty arms in a cold bed. 

But... then again, if anyone was ever going to see them...

He settles back a little uneasily, under the covers but leaving some space, and reaches for the book again. This time it's relinquished to his hand and the former bearer settles again as well.

The cover slides open, a few rough pages are skipped, and then he lands on a completed piece and a gasp fills the air.

The work is... art. It's lovingly rendered and has a sense of movement in permanence, the way truly beautiful sculpture sometimes appears ready to spring to life with the right word or touch. 

A man is on his back, visible from the waist up, muscles and planes expressed in clean lines and soft shadowing. The angle is almost dead level, as though the artist has a ringside seat to this erotic exhibition. His cropped hair is pillow-scruffed and his eyes are closed, one hand cupping the neck of the trimly strong man laying half over him about to sink teeth into the meat of his far shoulder. The cording visible in the angle of the delicate neck is incredibly detailed, as is the vein visible on the back of the hand about to skim up the side of his ribs. Surely any moment now the lovers will turn and meet the eyes of those who  _dare_  to spy, to gaze upon them in such an unguarded moment. Mycroft finds his breath held in check until they turn the page.

There are the aforementioned sketches with women, mostly highlighting the women. One lies, long dark hair spilling across the pillow like ink, ribcage starkly defined from the deep arch in her back, slender thighs barely obscuring the face of the man reaching up from between them to palm her breast. The detail on the face of his watch is astonishing.

Another is draped over a fainting couch in a sheer chiton, lush and Raphaelite in her curves, the only incongruity to her classical appearance the short spiked hair Mycroft would swear is a soft lavender, despite the sketches being in colorless charcoal and ink. One jeweled hand is resting on the thigh of the gladiator-fit man with his back turned to the page, about to slip beneath the edge of the slave's tunic he wears. The focal point is her large luminous eyes, staring up at the man's unseen face with clear lust, a hint of demand and almost grudging admiration. A scrap of Ovid flows over their heads. "Militiae species amor est" - Love is a kind of warfare. Strategy, conquest, occasional devastation.  _How true that can be_ , Mycroft agrees _._

They skip further and here are certain clothed shots, variations on the men from the first sketch. The slender man - face now clearly delineating him as the elder Holmes - is pressed back against a paneled wall (the detail expressed with a few barely visible lines), hair falling in tousled half curls, not a button undone on his three-piece suit. He is holding the back of the neck of the grey-haired man kissing him with open-mouthed passion. The man in the fore, suit jacket unbuttoned, has a hand gripping over the slight tenting in the trousers of the man in the three-piece.  _ **Duetto ad adagio**_  is jagged and discordantly harsh in block letters down the side.  _A slow duet,_  Mycroft translates automatically. _The sweet agony of anticipation and endlessly drawn-out seduction. Hmm..._

A few pages more and Gregory (jacket shed, tie loosened, sleeves rolled to show off his forearms) has Mycroft's tie in an overhand grip, pulling the suited man already holding him in a light embrace more fully into his sphere. They're three-quarter views, aligned on a mutual central plane, facing and away from the main perspective. Mycroft's lips are parting, face in quarter profile, but his eyes are closed... though Greg's are open and  **intense**  in their examination of the man he's clearly about to snog the breath out of.  _Laisse moi goûter ton âme_ is in spidery cursive in the background. 'Let me taste your soul.' He feels his heart skip a beat. 

There's a similarly dressed-down Gregory bent over his desk at NSY, palms set on files of paperwork, short nails digging into the battered wooden surface. Trousers shoved a little ways down his thighs to allow a fully-clothed Mycroft to take him from behind, one hand at his hip, the other tightly gripping his shoulder. Their expressions are a study in contrast - almost ruthless emotional mastery and shattering abandon - though neither is on the face one might expect. Their bodies form a sharp angle, but it's the line of sight (as if the viewer were seated _just_  to the side of the scene unraveling before them) and mostly clothed nature of the subjects that amplifies the eroticism - though the office beyond is deserted if one can tear their eyes away from the tableau politely requesting one's attention in a calm controlled tone, only a hint of breathlessness.

A page with 6 nearly identical panels of Mycroft from behind, detailing how his bottom does (or might) look in his full suit... a fitted tee and snug jeans... board shorts stamped with brollys... horizontally striped hipsters... a black lacy thong with silky looking stockings encasing his legs... bare with a nude Gregory knelt beside him, caressing one sculpted cheek and poised to take a bite out of the other. 

Mycroft pinned against the bookshelf in one of the private rooms at Diogenes, one hand stretched up to hold himself steady on a higher ledge, the other arm and one leg curled around Gregory like vines as he works his mouth over the snowy revelation of Mycroft's neck just below his starched collar and does something entirely left to the imagination with the hand hidden between them. It's reminiscent of the library scene in  _Atonement_ , and he's only a little surprised that he hasn't been femmed up and sketched in an emerald halter gown and heels.

Gregory, he realizes, would do it profound justice.

A quote from the novel is scrawled almost haphazardly along the bottom: "Nothing that can be, can come between me and the full prospect of my hopes." The implications of so simply stated a line are... intriguing. Grand potential to explore.

Greg sets his nail against the edge and flips several pages, short flashes like sensual  _trompe l'oeil_ , phantom impressions of sex and intimacy. 

Standing in the rain under Mycroft's ubiquitous umbrella, fingers overlaid around the handle, faces half hidden as their mouths meet. 

A detail of hands extending from suit sleeves, fingers laced together, palms pressed like a line from Shakespeare. 

Gregory propped against a headboard, the slash of a luridly red tie over his eyes, one arm behind his head, fingers threading through Mycroft's hair. Mycroft splayed on his stomach devouring the DI's cock while the edge of a charcoal sheet scarcely covers his bum like a tease. Shades of noir, or gritty sex-filled pulp fiction.

Mycroft's chin and jawline dipping into frame as a cigarette flares to life between their cupped hands.

The touch of Greg's hand on his shoulder after the funeral. 

A mouth pressed to a hipbone, impressions on the skin from the stubble along the man's jaw.

Two full pages of Mycroft's eyes and lips and miniature busts like a gallery row with most of his expressions neatly captured.

Greg, nude yet impressively tied with ropes, on his knees on the floor of the warehouse where Mycroft had first stolen him away. The opposite page holds a landscape image of a freed Gregory lying on his side, one arm steadying a naked and blindfolded Mycroft while he smiles down warmly at the bound man and strokes his hair. _**Kinbaku**_ and a kana Mycroft recognises as 'affection' flow in stark black lines underneath them.

Sketches of tie designs, suit outlines, motorcycles.

Them at a crime scene, stood straight and apart, just staring at each other.

Doodles of umbrellas, and a cutely cartoonish Mycroft floating on the air like Mary Poppins while it rains down heart-shaped droplets.

A full page closeup of their fingers tangled together around their sliding hardness, no doubt about to bring each other off in mutual bliss.

Fragrantly steaming cups of tea cosily nestled on a tray. Beautifully understated cufflinks inscribed with a cursive _L~H_ in a velvet box. Romantic still-life.

Hugs, kisses, snogs, shags, feeding each other, feeding on one another, hard fucks, drowsy lovemaking. Mycroft feels his head spinning from the inlfux of images and subsequent sensory overload.

They're nearing the end, and Greg stops on a particularly tender scene. They're on a sofa - not Greg's squashy secondhand monstrosity with the maddening blind spot, but neither any of Mycroft's designer couches (unsurprising as Gregory had never been in his home before tonight.) Yet it's... familiar. It - oh  _Lord_. Sherlock must've described the 'bedsheet in Buckingham' incident in great detail, or else the Detective Inspector's been on the elite tour and caught a glimpse of the receiving room. But they're snuggled on it nonetheless. Gregory wedged comfortably by the arm, Mycroft tucked under his chin and cosy against his chest, plush-looking duvet covering them from Mycroft's naked shoulders to their bare feet tangled together on the coffee table edging in from the bottom right of the page.

The next is Gregory on his back in the center of a wide bed, sheets pulling in at creased angles like striations, caught under their weight and gripped in Mycroft's fingers by his head. Mycroft's other arm is wrapped around his neck, and they're either in the throes or immediate aftermath of a shuddering orgasm. Gregory's thighs are pinned wide beneath his lover, legs bent to set his heels just beneath the fingers digging into the shapely derriere he's gifted Mycroft with and pulling him even deeper within. Mycroft's own limbs are half bent, allowing him leverage for deep thrusts and long drawbacks and kissing proximity. His head is turned down and away, resting on Gregory's shoulder, and the full expanse of his back is detailed with affection... and a small dark tattoo just below the left shoulderblade. His eye is continually drawn to it, though mostly because he cannot stop gazing at the deeply peaceful expression Gregory has drawn on himself. He looks content to the soul, eyes closed and a tiny curving smile that tells of soft delight and a calm indescribable something that Mycroft imagines could only come from being truly loved, and in the arms of one you truly love in return.

It makes no sense. Neither does the line from Verdi penciled in the margin.

_Come ti vidi/M'innamorai. E tu sorridi/Perchè lo sai_.

Mycroft swallows. Hard. "Did you really?"

Greg's wearing a small smile, tender and fond. "Yeah. Think I might've done, at least a bit."

The gap between them decreases by an inch or so.

"Did I? Truly?"

The shoulder nearest him rolls in a skeptical shrug. "Maybe not at the time. But I think you figured it out eventually. I've seen you smile since." 

He's smiling now, a tentative thing, as though daring to do so widely will shatter the moment, kill this fragile thing being breathed into existence between them.

The book closes before he can see whatever Gregory was working on when he awoke but it's fine. It's... all... fine. He's seen enough. It's been a very... _informative_ evening.

"Will you..." He lays a hand on Greg's bicep, loose and curling, easily shrugged off if need be. "Would you consider staying, allowing me to apologise? Profusely?"

"No." _Oh._ He starts to withdraw his hand, but it's quickly covered by Greg's shorter warmer fingers and pressed back into place. "Don't need you to apologise. But I'll stay and let you make it up to me. How's that?"

Oh.

"It depends..." He turns a little more fully, sliding the layer cake of their hands to Gregory's heart, brushing a rogue fall of argent hair back from the DI's brow before tracing the shell of his ear with a fingertip. "Exactly how long do you think you might be persuaded to stay?"

The smile he receives almost stops his heart. He's not sure he recalls the exact steps for drawing oxygen in and out. It's momentarily concerning, even as a tiny glow of something frangible and airy and cashmere soft sparks up in the center of his chest. Gregory sets the journal on the table on his side, then turns back and draws Mycroft fully into his arms, settling them into the pillows and under the blankets.

"We'll talk about it in the morning. I'll cook you breakfast."

Mycroft reaches out, snaps off his bedside lamp and draws the covers the few remaining inches needed to cover their shoulders, then catches his breath in his throat as Gregory closes the few remaining inches needed to kiss him goodnight.

_Mmmm... yes. We'll talk about it in the morning. The man I love. What a genius._

FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come ti vidi/ M'innamorai. E tu sorridi/ Perchè lo sai: When I saw you I fell in love, and you smiled because you knew.
> 
> Comments and kudos appreciated. Questions welcome. Cupcakes accepted.

**Author's Note:**

> This might continue. Descriptive sexy funtimes, Greg's 'recent absences'... We'll see.  
> Kudos, comments, kumquats and suggestions always welcome.


End file.
